


Damn, That Sun is Horny

by Elizabeth1985



Series: Destiel Ficlets [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas manipulates the sun, Dean Masturbates, Destiel - Freeform, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Masturbation, Purgatory, The rays of sunlight get all up in there (but not like... UP IN there... ya know), worst tagging ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:51:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8791300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth1985/pseuds/Elizabeth1985
Summary: Dean's having a rough day in Purgatory and needs to clean up by the river. When he prays for a little sunlight to dry his clothes and his skin, he's a wee bit shocked when his prayers are answered. 
Or... Cas uses the sun to help Dean rub one out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from @hunters-hiraeth: "Okay, Kink!prompt, ready? (and this should be a fun one) Actirasty! (the arousal of Sunlight rays) And although Im not a fan of Destiel, it should be relatively amusing for you to write."
> 
> Note: Okay to be fair, I was so stumped by this. But I did a slight tweak on it, to suit my idea (and I didn’t look it up at all so hopefully I didn’t butcher it for you). And yes it’s destiel, but mostly Dean masturbating while Cas manipulates the sun in Purgatory. Oddly, not the strangest thing I’ve ever written.

It’s day 200 in Purgatory. Dean doesn’t know that, of course. He’s long past caring about how many goddamn days he’s still in this sinister, death-haven of a wasteland. 

Why are there even days and nights? What’s the frickin’ point?

Whatever—he just finished ganking something that had four fucking arms and he’s irritated. Not an easy fucker to get the one up on, that’s for sure. It was a brutal fight, and he’s got gashes along his arm, and thick blood splatter all down his front.

On top of all that, this bastard ranked. Smelling of bile and old tacos.

“Man, I’d kill for a taco,” he drones quietly, tromping down the nearest hill to the river below. He doesn’t normally care to clean himself up because let’s face the shit facts here, Dean’s not gonna be going on any dates any time soon. His days of primping are pretty well over.

But the smell… _Christ._ Fighting his gag reflex, Dean marches through brush towards the sounds of moving water and starts removing layers.

“I swear to God,” he threatens, “if any of you fuckers try to gank me while I’m getting rid of your _nasty-ass_ smell, oooohhH!” Dean cuts of his warning with a growl of irritation and catches sight of the water, jogging the rest of the way. Threats notwithstanding, he better get this done quick.

For all the time he’s been in this place, the air has been stale and unmoving. The nights have been cold and unforgiving. One might hope the days would be a bit more tolerable, instead they’re perpetually gray, dreary, like a weight’s been hanging over the trees for centuries. Dean wondered one night if the dead raised up in purgatory and simply added to the vile atmosphere.

By now, he’s down to his filthy boxers. Overstretched cotton with a nice aroma of mansweat. Christ, he’s never been sexier. With a snort, Dean surveys his surroundings, ears piqued for the smallest of sounds. 

He waits an entire three minutes, counting each second in his head, before he determines ‘the fuck with it! And chucks the old cheapo Fruit of the Looms to the ground. The only thing he doesn’t remove are his shoes because he can sure as hell run and fight naked if he has to—fuck it wouldn’t even be the first time that’s happened in his life—but without shoes? Yeah, not happening.

Bundling his horrid-smelling pile of clothes, he gets close to the water, finding a large, flat stone by the edge to perch on as he attempts to wash the grime and nastiness from his stuff. The still-bleeding slash on his bicep makes the process slightly redundant, because he’ll clean one thing and then wind up dripping blood on it.

“Fuck!” he curses in a harsh breath. “Motherfucking purgatory couldn’t have cabins, or fucking washing machines. What the hell!?” he mumbles, ranting. With his undershirt clean of the worst of it, he squeezes out as much water as he can and wraps the fabric around his arm to stem the leaky situation there.

As he’s washing the rest of his stuff, and slowly starting to wash himself, he continues to blab. What else is there to do really? He murmurs under his breath about burgers, and stupid angels that run away, and gross four-armed monsters, and those weird terrifying overgrown chicken things he fought a while back. But then, while he’s laying his clothes on some branches and about to lay down, he ends his tirade with, “And you couldn’t even give me one fucking minute of sun, huh? Not _ONE_ goddamn ray of sunlight to dry my damn shit, you fucking asshat!”

Dean has no clue who he’s bitching to anymore, but when he lies down—eyes wide open—the strangest thing happens.

Amidst the thick overhead blanket of oppressive grey, a bright spot starts to form, growing wider and brighter. When a ray of light casts itself over his surroundings, the phrase ‘Beam me up, Scottie’ rises at the forefront of his mind.

His brows knit together in confusion… is this seriously the fucking sun? There’s never been sun before. Maybe it’s a really peculiar sort of monster and he’s about to be burned to death. But man, what a way to go… cause right now, that hot sun warming his skin, feels… feels like heaven.

Jesus, he never realized how _cold_ he’s been. The heat warms him right through, the rock beneath him absorbing the rays as well. At this rate, his clothes will be dry in no time.

Though he tries to fight it, his eyes fall shut. There’s something about the sunlight, a sense he feels around him. For the first time since the day he wound up here, he feels safe. The rays of light seem to move, shifting around him, hotter in some places, cooler in others.

It’s bright against his eyes, turning all his photographic thoughts a shade of red. When it grows too hot, there’s a sudden breeze.

What the hell is going on?

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he has a feeling he should be able to piece this mystery together. But his brain has closed-up shop apparently. The heat starts to orient, however non-sentient he assumed sunlight was, moving with purpose towards his abdomen and thighs. It curls inward, warming the inside of his thighs and further up.

“Mmnngh..” the moan escapes his throat without thought. After so long, devoid of anything close to good, the gentle bloom of warmth over the length of his cock is exquisite. His sex thickens and straightens, shifting over his skin as it grows in length and weight.

However impossible, the yellow rays grow hotter right at the juncture of his hips and he can’t help canting up towards it. A breeze ghosts past him, under his backside and up between his legs.

Dean starts to pant, utterly confused and implausibly turned right the fuck on. “What the hell…” he whispers.

There’s a rustling in the distance, a whisk of air between leaves and though it should alert him to potential danger… he has a better idea what’s going on than he did before.

_“Cas…”_

Another rustle, and the growing rush of the water nearby lapping at the shore confirms his guess. He smiles into the sun and thinks this the weirdest damn interaction they’ve ever had—which says a lot. 

Before Cas deserted him, Dean knew the secrets they each held… what buried hopes existed. Ignorance had never been bliss, no siree, but it was a damn necessity. Considering everything.

To say this is their first sexual encounter might be a stretch but Dean chuckles and decides to go with it. It’s likely to be the only good thing he gets out of this shithole so he might as well reap it in.

Even _if_ he they escape, he knows the former status quo will resume and in the end, maybe all they’ll ever have is a shared dream once in a blue moon and this trippy little sun-molestation that seems to be happening.

Grinning wide, hoping to one Holy Angel that he’ll get a decent warning if he’s about to be jumped, Dean palms down his front and takes himself in hand. It’s been eons since he’s given himself a good tug and the second his fist closes around the hot shaft, he lets out an obscene moan.

The sun flickers over the length of his body and he takes that as a good sign. Starting to slide his fingers up and down, Dean gives himself over to the moment. He lets the rays of light wash over him, warming his centre… the flickers and shift of light encouraging his jerking fist. When he parts his mouth, finding it hard to breathe, the sun heats his lips, seems to slide into his mouth and over his tongue.

“Jesus Christ,” he exhales, turning his head to the side and feeling the light trace itself down his throat and over the length of his taut arm, muscles dancing to accommodate the work of his hand.

He tells the light it’s being pervy, smiling when the feverish heat blossoms to an extent that has him breaking into a sweat. “Cas,” he warns, stuttering through choppy breaths as his pace increases, “… just cleaned my… clothes… can’t sweat. _Fuuuckkk…_ ”

Dean registers the rush of a new breeze with a thankful smile and slows down his touch, his hand drifting to cup his weighted sac, fingers trailing back to knead the space next to his ass, wishing he was equipped to go further. Whining in a moment’s frustration, he trails his fingers back to his shaft and strokes up to the head, sweeping over the crown to coat his fingers in beaded precome. He slicks it down his erection and rises back up for another pass.

The tight coil of heat in him, aided by the sun, starts to swell and peak. His strokes timed to capitalize the surge of pleasure. Every muscle goes taut and he squeezes just under the head of his cock. All around him, the sun-rays flicker and grow warmer, the breeze picks up incessantly.

“Yeah…” he grates out past the delirium of bliss, eyes clamped shut, “I’m gettin’ there.”

Reality seems to warp, drifting from what he can sense to a blended dream, weaving through the planes of his existence. Behind his eyes, he sees a swift pass of dark hair… of familiar hands. But when he opens his eyes, there’s only the brightly lit bank-side of the river. His clothes flapping in the light wind nearby.

As his fingers trace over his slit, spreading another swell of precome, a thick moan bubbles from his throat. Another sense trips into the realm of fantasy; the feel of a hand sweeping over his chest. There’s nothing there. “Lower, goddammit!”

Dean bites his lip and watches the light shift, down his flickering abs to join the place where’s slowly fucking up into his own hand. Oh god, he can feel it… Something ephemeral slipping in under his palm. The heat intense, rolling, following the movements of his hand and running between each of his fingers. “Mother of fuck!”

It should be too hot, but it’s not. It’s _mindblowing_! Dean’s mouth falls open and a silent shout is thrown to the sky as he spasms into release, his body jerking into each surge. Come shooting upward and landing on his pelvis, stomach and chest. As he’s panting and gasping through the last waves of his climax, he notices the rest of his come dripping down to coat his fingers. The gripping feverish heat blooms and fades, like a thank you.

Dean can’t help but laugh as the sun flickers and dances all around him. “Oh jesus, that was weird.” He heaves some air and reiterates, “So. Fucking. Weird.”

The afterglow doesn’t last, the sun dims quick with a lingering gust of wind and Dean knows it’s a warning.

He barely has time to scramble into his boxers and grab his blade before two grungy dudes burst into his place of bliss and attack. Their deaths are quick and happily served. “Huh… guess a good orgasm does do the body good.” Dean howls in triumph and runs back to put on the rest of his clothes. “Cas, when I find you we need to have two _really_ serious conversations!”


End file.
